


Got Not Hold On Me

by FyrMaiden



Series: With Hairspray and Denim [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Blaine and Rachel hook up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Not Hold On Me

**Author's Note:**

> _Your kisses burn into my skin_  
>  Only love can hurt like this,  
> But it’s the sweetest pain,  
> Burning hot right through my veins  
> ~ Only Love Can Hurt Like This, Paloma Faith

There’s an impromptu loft party in full swing, or petering out, or – anyway. The loft is half full of people, and empty glasses, and laughter and music. Blaine lies with his head in Rachel’s lap, his ankles crossed on the arm of the couch and a glass balanced on his stomach, wobbling dangerously with every breath, every huffed exhalation and laugh. Rachel smoothes her fingers over his hair, tamping down the baby curls that escape from the hold of the gel, and he grins up at her. He’s pretty, she thinks, not for the first time. Even here, now, slightly drunk and a lot loose, he is immaculate. It’s beautiful, and she wants to touch, to slide her hand over the fabric of his clothes and feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers. She’s spent a lot of minutes, over the years, wondering what Blaine Anderson would feel like if she had the opportunity to touch him, and this is the first real opportunity she has had. 

She tells herself she will blame it on vodka if he objects, reaching gently to undo the knot of his tie. She feels the leap of his pulse when he sucks in a surprised breath, and bathes in the trust that shines from his mildly intoxicated gaze. He’s everything she’d thought he would be, all reassuring smile and docile tactility. When he doesn’t object to the tie, she carefully undoes the button at his throat as well, and moves the glass from his stomach to the table. She stands hers beside it, and watches as the dregs of tomato juice slide slowly down the inside to form a watery pulp at the bottom. Blaine continues to gaze up at her, his hand moving to catch hers and bring it to his mouth, pressing a warm wet kiss to her palm before he lets her go. She smiles down at him, and he levers himself slowly upright to sit beside her, watches her as their friends dance around them, seemingly almost repelled by the invisible bubble world they’ve created on the couch.

Neither of them speaks. Rachel’s skirt rides up her thigh as she crosses one leg over the other. She’s suddenly acutely aware of the pinch of her shoes, and she pretends not to but she watches from the corner of her eye, sees Blaine’s face as she pulls off her shoe with a groan that’s almost orgasmic in its pleasure. His tongue flicks out pink across his flushed lips and he cants his head. “Can I-?” he says, and stops himself. Rachel turns her head and watches his gaze track the length of her legs before coming back to meet her eyes, his cheeks flushed slightly. She doesn’t speak, only nods and turns, tucking her one shoeless foot under her thigh, to rest her other foot on the soft wool of his pants.

“Do your worst, Mr Anderson,” she smiles, dipping her chin and peering at him through her bangs. She shoots for flirty and coy, and Blaine’s blush deepens. His gaze drops to his thigh and her shoe and when his hands finally touch her skin, they are reverent and warm, rough and large and blunt and beautiful, and she feels the surge of desire she tries to repress bore through her. If he wanted, if it were a thing he would be into, she’d do terrible, wonderful, awful things to and with him. She looks away and tries not to think.

Blaine’s hands are distractingly precious with her, though. He trails light fingers up her calf and down her shin, and his expression, when she looks at him, is unguarded and worshipful. He’d be attentive as well, she thinks. He’d listen to her, listen to her body, make her world implode and explode and widen exponentially. When he finally hooks his fingers around the dagger heel of her stiletto and slides it from her foot, she almost follows it to the floor. He pushes her foot gently from his lap instead and moves in slowly to press his lips against hers, close mouthed and chaste but a kiss all the same. She doesn’t even have to think about kissing him back.

The hum of noise in the loft fades into the background when Blaine pulls away. The music seems to tune to her pulse, or her pulse tunes itself to the thump of the music. Either way, it reverberates through her, eroding her sense of propriety. She wants him more than she ever has, and he doesn’t seem to be shying away. His eyes search her face, and she breathes slowly through her nose, tries to think, tries to understand what is happening. She can almost hear Santana in her head, sitting at their table, talking too fast over the morning news broadcast and the rumble of the building’s old pipes, about how it feels to have Blaine goddamn Anderson look at you with those huge golden eyes, all soft and dewy like a puppy you’ve just gotta take home and fuc- feed. Rachel had hidden her face in the fridge until her blood had evened out through her whole body again, instead of gathering in her face, and had said she couldn’t possibly comment. She’d known then what Santana meant, though, had known how Tina felt as well, felt it warm between her legs and throb through her core. It’s how she feels right now with Blaine Anderson sitting on the couch, tipsy drunk on Bloody Marys and laughter, gazing at her like she makes the earth turn. It’s heady and glorious and she feels like she rules the world.

For one person at least, right now, she guesses she sort of does.

Moving slowly, like she’s wading through molasses, stretching time between her fingers and his, she reaches for his hand. She slips from the sofa and pulls him after her, tugs his hand and says, “Do you want to-?” His out breath is low and long and when he meets her eyes, it’s not without trepidation.

“Yes,” he says, and then, “But I don’t-”

“Shh,” she whispers, pressing her fingers to his lips, and then replacing them with her mouth again. “Don’t worry.”

There’s no plan when she leads him by the hand across the loft, skirting the edge of the makeshift dance floor where Santana dances too close with Dani, where their friends sit drinking and laughing and where no one even glances at them. There’s no plan when she pulls the curtain closed behind her and turns to face him. There’s no plan when she moves into his space and kisses him again, when she guides his nervous hands to her hips and her ribs, when she touches his face and splays her fingers along his jaw. He’s not how she imagined he would be in her secret dreams and fantasies. This Blaine has kissed before, has kissed other people, has learned to do terrible, awesome things with his tongue. This Blaine tastes like tomato and vodka and she groans into his mouth as she breaks away, pressing her face into his throat as she tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it from his pants without reason or ceremony.

It’s Blaine that breaks away from her. “Clothes,” he says, and she nods, pulling her sweater over her head. She reaches behind her to slide the zipper of her skirt down as the same time as Blaine pushes his pants from his hips. His shirt comes over his head quickly, and then he’s facing her, standing in her room in just his underwear. He’s more than she imagined he’d be beneath his buttoned down charm. He is neat and compact, groomed but not hairless, strong without being bulky, and she loves it, she wants it. She reaches for his face and pulls him forward a stumbling step, kissing him fiercely and gasping when one hand tangles in her hair and the other lands on her hip. She shuffles backwards and breaks away from him only to discard her bra and climb onto her bed, arranging herself to watch him crawl across the sheets towards her, covering her body with his before he pauses close enough for her to feel the heat of him.

“You’re gonna have to help me here,” he breathes, his stare frank and his pupils blown and his body hot and heavy above her. She touches his waist gently, slides her hand up his ribs and around his back, hooks her hand over his shoulder as she uses her feet to press him in closer against her.

“Have you-” she begins, and he nods, gasps as she rocks her hips up against him, buries his face in her throat and mouths across her chest, across her collarbones, up her jaw.

“Once,” he breathes into her skin, and she nods and stills her body. In this moment, she knows she can’t blame this on alcohol anymore. She’s not drunk, and neither is he. She relaxes her hold on him and takes his hand instead. She guides it to her breasts, which he touches and squeezes, and then drags his thumb, dry and teasing, across her nipples. She gasps and arches and he grins, replaces his thumb with his mouth and his teeth and she stutters his name before pressing his hand down between them, beneath her panties and between her thighs. He is nervous here, his eyes locking with hers, and she says, softly, softly, “Watch, Blaine,” and smiles when his eyes track down her body again to where their hands rest.

“Relax,” she whispers, kissing his shoulder, “Relax for me. Just feel.”

And he does, tentative at first, fingers a teasing brush over sensitive skin, her hand on his wrist feeling the movement of bone on bone, the flex of tendons, as he presses into the folds of her. She feels her lips part but doesn’t hear her own gasp. When she remembers how to open her eyes, his are fixed on her. “Like this?” he breathes, heel of his hand resting on her pubic bone, long fingers dextrous, teasing and testing and equally uncertain. There is a part of her which wants to know about the first time - the other time - but mostly she wants to teach him how to make this work, to show him how to get her off, and he seems to want to learn.

“Watch,” she says, releasing his wrist and allowing him to pull back. She wriggles her panties down her hips and thighs and over her feet, tosses them toward the window. Blaine’s gaze rakes over her body, and she smiles and arches, leonine and powerful, licks her fingers and reaches between her thighs, presses two digits to her clit and rubs tight circles. “Here,” she breathes, dips her fingers lower to where she’s wet and ready and coats her fingers, presses one inside before moving back to her clitoris. Blaine’s tongue flicks out over his lips and his fingers join hers. She lets him take over, her own hands moving back to her breasts, to her nipples, squeezing and teasing, eyes closing as she gluts herself on his fingers, on Blaine in her bed, warm and present and all hers, at least for the night.

When Blaine replaces his fingers with his tongue, running flat along the length of her, she gasps and pushes herself up on her elbows, her fingers tangling in his hair, cracking through the gel this time, as her breath catches in her chest. All sense of nervous hesitation is gone when he does it again, pointing his tongue and running it in a circle around her clit. He tucks his shoulder behind her thigh, presses her legs apart, and tongues over where she’s flushed hard and sensitive, closes his mouth over her and sucks and she groans, reaches for him and doesn’t touch, and when her eyes blink back into focus, his are closed. She feels the orgasm coalesce in her stomach, the white roll of pleasure building and building, and Blaine’s fingers pushing inside of her again, his tongue insistent and unforgiving against her, and her fingers tangle in the sheets as her body twists, and just like that, she is pulsing and coming around his fingers. He pulls away from her, tongue darting quick over his lips, and rests his cheek against her thigh. He kisses it gently, presses one finger inside of her again, curious and cautious and she rocks up against the heel of his hand, gasps his name, and, “Fuck, Blaine,” and he meets her eyes, suddenly lost and uncertain.

“Do you want to?” she asks in the quiet that stretches infinite between them, and watches him blink and press his lips together, and bow his head, pressing his lips tenderly to the place where her thigh becomes her crotch. “Blaine?”

“I dont,” he murmurs, and huffs a frustrated laugh as he finally meets her gaze. “Yes. But I don’t know - I mean, I know, I just don’t – fuck.” He buries his face in the crook of her leg, and she can feel the puff of his breath and the warmth of his skin, and she reaches for his arm as she untangles them, sitting up slowly.

“Tell me about her,” she says, and Blaine smiles and shakes his head.

“We were 18,” he says slowly, “And we were desperately sad and in need of something or someone, and it was fast and lonely and when it was over, Tina went home. I don’t – it counts, it mattered then, but it doesn’t – I don’t – God.” He exhales a frustrated sigh and searches the wall behind her head for answers that aren’t forthcoming. ”Tina and I had sex to forget how sad we were, and I think it made us sadder before it helped us heal.”

Rachel’s hand finds his cheek, tilting his head to force him to look at her, and she leans in to kiss him. “This isn’t then,” she says into the space between them. “This doesn’t have to be that.” He nods and swallows, and she says, again, “Do you want to fuck me, Blaine?”

“Yes,” he says again, soft and without hesitation. Rachel smiles, touches his waist and his hips, cups her hand over the length of him, half hard beneath the cotton of his briefs. She rubs gently and Blaine bites his lip, rolls his head to stare at the ceiling, even as she feels the flare of interest. His body, she decides, is far less inhibited than his head.

“Hey,” she says, “Look at me.” 

And he does, those beautiful eyes come back to lock with hers, and she tucks her fingers in the elastic riding low on his hips. “Off,” she says, and releases him so that she can roll away to dig through her nightstand. She emerges triumphant with a condom, and Blaine, when she turns back, has shucked his underwear, is gloriously unabashed in his body. He should be, she thinks, and follows it up with the unbecoming thought that it’s a shame this is a one time thing because she’d love to become better acquainted with the man kneeling naked and turned on and - and, she realises, belatedly, definitely waiting for her.

It doesn’t take long, in the end. Rachel remembers her first time, and how that had been fumbling and brief and full of intention and good will and had lasted just about long enough for Finn to finally get to touch her boobs. Blaine, at least, has had sex before, knows how his hips work, and has a dancer’s grace. She still feels the overwhelmed stuttered exhalation of his breath against her throat, though, as he drops to his elbows and her heels lock around his ass, urging him deeper and harder. When he responds, she can feel him all over, the weight of his body and the damp of his skin, and him inside of her, stretching her open until her breath is a damp pants against his shoulders, her fingers bruising tight in their grip on his skin. 

She feels his orgasm in the stutter of his hips and the way he buries his face in her skin, and hears it in the moan that whispers from his throat into hers. She tightens her thighs against his sweat-damp body and moves with him, rides him out and lets him come down. She feels his lips on her neck and strokes his hair, lets his hands trail over her body gently as he pushes himself off of her. She smiles softly, strokes his cheek, and pulls him back to press a kiss to his lips, which he returns easily.

As he disposes of the condom, she pulls the sheet over herself and invites him to stay with her, and, when she awakes, she is alone. Blaine’s side of the bed is cold, the sheets smoothed into some semblance of tidy, and the condom that she’d told him to the dump is gone when she rolls to look. She gets up and pulls an oversized t-shirt over her head and knots her hair at the base of her skull, tugs her robe around her. 

In the kitchen, Blaine is busy making pancakes. On the table is a carafe of fresh coffee. When he hears her, he shoots her a bright smile and then turns back to the stove. “They’re vegan,” he says, and then, “I’m not sure how they’ll taste, but the internet was positive.” 

Rachel smiles and takes a seat at the table. If he wants to talk, he will. And, if he doesn’t, then they’ll work with that instead.


End file.
